


string theory

by PersephoneHemingway



Series: spyglass//gunmetal [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 00 Agents (James Bond), Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Annoyed Mycroft Holmes, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Light Angst, Love Confessions, MI6 Agents, Meet-Cute, Mycroft Holmes IS the British Government, Oblivious Mycroft Holmes, Panties, Pinky promise, Power Dynamics, Reader-Insert, Red String of Fate, Spy!Reader, Strangers to Lovers, Two Shot, ch1 is sfw, ch2 is pwp lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-07-25 00:24:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20023492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersephoneHemingway/pseuds/PersephoneHemingway
Summary: most people end up following their soulmate strings at some point, mycroft never bothered.





	1. pull

**Author's Note:**

> all the smut tags and the E rating are for the second chapter. this one is more like T. jsyk, heh.

Most people end up following their strings at some point, at least a little, almost always finding each other if they're in the same city at least. Mycroft never bothered.

He didn’t have time for such nonsense.

&

You had a habit of absently pulling at your string, twirling it, knitting cat’s cradles between your fingers. It gave you something to do when your highly specialized skills were being used to stand behind important people and watch for little red dots.

You stood between the window and Lady Smallwood, waiting for Mycroft Holmes to join you for a diplomatic meeting with some highly decorated individual in the American embassy.

When he entered, he was a bit out of breath, apologizing for his tardiness and listing some (probably valid) excuse while handing the American a classified manila folder. You had no idea what he was saying—you were a bit more focused on the red string tied around his pinky leading to yours.

You’d figure that most people would notice when their string pulled tight, dramatically shorter, and stood plainly attached to another person in the room (you could only see your _own_ string, after all). In fact, most people were in the habit of checking their lines past every threshold and in every open space. Constant. A buzzing awareness that snapped to attention immediately upon sensing change—consider the sport of fishing.

But he’d clearly gotten so used to ignoring it that it was as invisible to him as the tip of his nose. For a man so well-known for catching every detail and drawing every conclusion, right then he sure seemed pretty blind.

The American, the head of MI6, and the British government himself talked on.

You were honestly surprised that in your position, with all you’ve heard of Mycroft, you’d never once been in the same room together.

How many orders had you taken from him? How many people have you killed at his command?

He was off somewhere buried in administration—playing the games and spinning the lies that covered for the reality of what agents like you were ordered to do, _for queen and country_.

You all knew the truth, but he could sit there in his buildings and towers and talk it all away as pretend. You were the one with the gun, but you knew it was people like Mycroft who really had the power.

_And he was your soulmate_ —but off being too busy to face the truth (literally right in front of him).

If he didn't _want_ a soulmate, fine—but you sure as hell weren't gonna let him pretend he didn't have one.

&

You weren’t sure if you were doing this out of jest or spite, but you were doing it anyway.

Maybe it was just in your nature to fuck with people. Oh well.

He's clearly never looked for you, and knowing his iceman reputation you could get why, but you’d given yourself your own private mission anyway—you left notes.

Red ink, red paper, tied with red string—whatever red you had on hand at the time got tied into your little teases.

A red cardstock gift tag tied to the handle of his umbrella with red yarn—"you forgot this" left on his office desk.

A postcard sent from a mission in Bali. "wish you were here, xx" in red sharpie.

A red scrap of paper torn from a familiar political flyer—“recognize me? what country am i? maybe i’m causing the trouble?”

An ice bucket spray-painted red after you coincidentally ended up at the same hotel in Wales— “some ice, iceman?”

A red velvet cake shipped to his office on Valentine’s day— “kisses, my! xx”

Mycroft demanded Anthea tell him who left it. She didn't know.

You, after overhearing that Mycroft was having a difficult time obtaining a certain classified personnel file through the proper admin channels? You had mercy on him—the file was on his desk the next morning, also graced with your usual sass: “sick of all the red tape, baby? (how about red string?)”

&

Mycroft, now constantly flustered, bothers Sherlock with a case.

Three days prior, Mycroft ruined his gloves in some kind of paint incident, and you’d sent new ones—in a red box tied with a red ribbon—leather, high quality, expensive, perfect fit.

Sherlock comments on Mycroft’s new gloves, and his fidgeting.

Mycroft brushes him off, and naturally, Sherlock is suspicious.

Sherlock gets nosy and finds you, laughing at your game.

You then deliver the completed case back for Sherlock, leaving it on Mycroft's desk with a standard pale yellow sticky written in red pen— "sherlock says hi ;)"

You were expecting him to crack soon, and you were so excited to see it.

&

Mycroft had never before been so distracted.

He was hyperaware of his string—and the possibility of _you_.

Somehow you still kept your distance, while forcing him into making a move.

He's all wound up about it—you were obviously looking for attention, but you’re willing to wait…you want him to find you. You’re leaving clues, and you’re clearly brilliant, or he would’ve caught you by now.

So Mycroft walked the streets of London distracted, tugging on his string, on his way to a meeting of state secrets.

Meanwhile you were in bit of a chase, pursuing someone who stole some important government something (likely relevant to the aforementioned meeting).

You’re in a mad dash across a road when the thief pushes Mycroft into the street in his hurry, leaving you to tackle him back to the sidewalk before he’s hit by a car, yelling an apology as you take off back in pursuit, running the man into an alley.

Shocked but recovering fast, Mycroft notices you're the end of his string and he frantically runs after you, turning the corner in time to see you shoot the guy in both legs before he can clear a chain link fence, disabling him.

You fish his pockets for the stolen item, put a foot on his back to keep him down, and phone your handler that you've handled it, and need some transport.

All the while, Mycroft's just staring at you in the mouth of the alley as you're breathing all heavy and your suit's all askew—like his, and his hair's a mess, and you're looking back at him, and finally you crack a smile.

"Mycroft Holmes—nice to finally meet you. I'm (Y/N) (L/N), with MI6. 004, if you prefer. I'm your soulmate."

“You… you were in the meeting about the downed U.S. fighter jet…”

“Oh, is that what the meeting was about? I was a little too focused on the red string ‘round your finger.”

“Why didn’t you say anything, then? After?

"Well, you didn't really look like you needed anything more on your plate."

“So instead, you cooked up this whole elaborate scavenger hunt?”

“Uh, yeah. Something like that.”

“Oh…”

You stared at each other. You broke the pause.

“So, uh… dinner, maybe?”

“Oh yes, sure, once you’re done taking care of…” He waved his hand vaguely at the bleeding man under your boot.

“Yes, right, the recovery team should be here in five. I can go home and change, if you’d like?”

“No, no, that’s quite alright, I’d rather not, uh,”

“Lose me again?” You smirked.

“Ah, perhaps something like that, yes…”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Holmes, you won’t be getting rid of me anytime soon.” You were holding back laughter.

“You’re making fun of me.”

“You’re letting me.”

“I, Really, I find myself at a loss for words.”

“First time, I reckon?” He frowned. “I must be pretty clever for a goldfish then, yeah?”

He opened his mouth and then closed it.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll catch up before long.”

A wink.

A blink.


	2. garrote

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you were a femme fatale and a tease, yes, but you’re happy to let mycroft take back his control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s a smut drabble, folks.

&

_It’s been months since then._

“Promise?” An expecting smile.

“Oh, don’t make me do this again, (Y/N).”

You pouted, and he caved immediately, frowning. He held out his pinky, string dangling, and yours joined his to cross. You kissed the back of your fist as he did, and then you kissed each other.

“I’ll see you after I’m done not getting killed?”

“Yes, I’ll keep dinner warm for you.”

You beamed, swiped your key card, and dashed into the hidden door under the bridge.

Mycroft shook his head after you, put his hands in his coat pockets, and left for Whitehall.

&

“Oh, my little spy…”

You whined a whine quite unbefitting of an agent licensed to kill.

“You like it when I order you around, don’t you?”

You gasped out a response in the affirmative.

_“You even like killing for me, don’t you?”_

“I-“

_“Spit it out._ ”

A rushed whisper— “I’d do anything for you, sir.”

“Mm. Shall we test that?”

&

When he had you strip for him, he frowned at your mismatched lingerie. Your assets were showcased well, but he knew you were baiting him by not wearing a matched set (he’d bought you the best, after all).

You were kneeling before him, toes digging into the carpet, looking up at him (straining your neck—and of course the bastard knew it).

Naturally, he was still fully dressed for disarming world governments with an offhand remark. The power imbalance was always so clear.

“I like you on your knees for me, little one.”

You blinked, ignoring the rush of hot blood through your body.

“M-me too, sir.”

Really, you'd never imagined yourself so submissive in bed—but you'd never expected your soulmate to be Mycroft Holmes, either. If anyone were to be in a position to overpower you, it’d be him.

He sat himself on the edge of his plush bed and beckoned you over; your knees brushed across the carpet as you crawled to him. He absently began threading your hair with his string. ~~~~

Mycroft’s hold became sharp as he pulled your face down into his lap, where he held you close in his scent. You licked at the seam of his trousers and soon after, he let them hit the floor.

“Take me into your mouth.”

You knew what he wanted, what he liked. You twisted your tongue around his tip once or twice before letting all the spit you could muster drip down his throbbing cock. Your lips took over then, cheeks hollowing as you bobbed up and down with ease on your own slobber.

He was surrounded by you, and after a few minutes of letting you lead, he took back his control. His hand held your head still, and he started bucking his hips up so the tip of his cock breached your throat again and again.

"You were made to serve me, my dear.”

You did your best to signal your agreement as you teared up and choked on his cock.

He left your mouth sloppy, and your leaky eyes were blown with lust. Your throat was aching, but you kept scooting closer to him for more—you arched your breasts up to him and pleaded for his lips and tongue to tease.

Just before he reached the point where he’d no longer be able to control his groans of pleasure, he pulled himself from you and gently slapped your cheeks with his cock.

You flinched, then opened your eyes and held your tongue out for more.

He chuckles and you try to lurch forward, missing him between your lips, on your tongue, in your senses.

“Oh, need something back in your mouth, sweet girl? I’ve got you.”

Mycroft always does things deliberately—you knew he kept your pretty pink knickers near him for a reason. As your eyes continued to plead for him, Mycroft balled up your discarded lingerie and stuffed it into your waiting mouth.

You whined and wiggled, so eager.

Mycroft gathered up a substantial tangle of the red thread between you and began to wrap your wrists behind your back with it. The skin over your spine began to prickle, but you allowed it.

You were a bit on edge having lost the use of your hands—even though you knew there were plenty of resources in the room you use to unbind yourself if you could roll over to them. Mycroft felt the subtle tension in the string and brought his hand to your cheek, petting you until you unclenched your jaw.

“Shh, I know. You are not in danger; you’re safe here, with me. You’re doing so well, I’m proud of you, (Y/N).”

You closed your eyes and let a breath out through the knickers crammed in your mouth, leaning into his touch and consciously slowing your heartbeat to ease the anxiety. _Safe. My. Soulmate._

It was then that he flipped you onto your stomach and entered you.

It started sweet—a stark contrast to how you were tied and stuffed. Once the smooth and steady slide had you whining through damp cloth, Mycroft knotted his hand in the tie ‘round your wrists and pulled your back into an arch until your muscles were taut. His thrusts hit deeper, and his other hand slithered up your body so he could cup your jaw and press it close to his own. The pressure of his hand increased and you moaned. It was becoming a bit hard to breathe.

“Mm, like that little girl? A brush with danger? I suppose this is the most damage I’ll ever do to you with my own hands, hm? Usually it’s my orders that have you dancing with death.”

The lack of oxygen began as a low humming in your hindbrain, building into a crescendo of bees as the pressure pumped through your veins. Every heartbeat resounded in your toes and you felt like an overinflated balloon that needed to pop or shoot off and it made what Mycroft was doing to your pussy so much _more_ than it would've been otherwise. And you burst.

Your immediate panic was that you didn't ask for permission.

It obviously didn’t escape Mycroft’s attention.

“Oh, pretty girl, what have you done? Should I punish you for your pleasure?”

You were incoherent and utterly lost in Mycroft.

‘How about this, sweet girl? Would you let me choke you with our love?”

There are a few things that you knew: _Mycroft was teasing you._ _Mycroft would never hurt you. Mycroft was acting in a controlled, consensual environment for the pleasure of you both._

But all of this was lost in the fog of your orgasm and submission, which is why what Mycroft did next triggered your training.

With the slack still left between your strings, he brought his arms crossed up over your head and pulled the strings tight to your neck.

You felt the hint of a cutting sting, and then you flipped it back on him.

A wrist twist, a crossing of arms, and a sudden exchange of dominance.

You blinked back to consciousness straddling him, your strings crossed beneath his chin.

You paused. He gave the barest of nods. You spit the lingerie from your mouth and moved to choke—your wrists suspended in air behind each other’s heads, crossed, pulling tight and closer together, your lips crushing fast until you’re inhaling one another’s release—stronger after the lack of air, lungs filled anew, untangling your string so you could tangle your limbs together instead.

&

You lay against the headboard in a post-orgasm haze until Mycroft cut back to reality.

"I may give the orders, but it's always been you with the power to execute them. You could take me down, but you choose not to. That's how we can be equals, dear."

He brushed your hair clear from your face.

_"I'm only in control because you let me be."_

Your eyes snapped sharp to his.

"My, you know that's a fucking lie. You could have me sniped down flat now with a pocket text, and I'd never even make a move to the door. _You own me_."

His eyes narrowed.

"Because _you let me_. You _like_ handing over control. You _like_ that you can give it all over to me. And now that we've met, that we're tied—you like that you can _trust_ me."

"Bullsh-"

"(Y/N). You fucked with me for months. We're tied, and I still never saw you. You can be a ghost if you want to be, you can trick the world into thinking you don't exist."

"So can you, Mr. 'minor position in the British government'. I'm not anything special."

"I didn't know M could even hire a double-oh so humble. MI6 must think you're a dream."

“Mycroft.”

“I love you.”

Your mouth dropped like the goldfish Mycroft knew you weren’t.

“Y-you _what_?”

“ _I love you,_ (Y/N). And you should hear it from me more.”

“B-but, ? You drop- you hit me with this… _sentiment_?” You ended on a whisper, and took a moment to watch his face for any indications of lying or manipulation. You’d only known truth from him since you’d formally met, but his reputation was too distinct for you to not be a little suspicious at such an outward confession of deep feeling.

Mycroft turned away, then turned back to you with the shyest smile and the softest eyes.

“Trust me, (Y/N)?”

You were sure your expression looked as if you’d seen a ghost, and then as if that ghost had ascended into heaven.

“With my whole self, Mycroft.”

He nodded.

“Mycroft?”

“Mn?”

You crossed your pinky with his so your strings pooled together.

“I love you too.”

And together you fell asleep in a knot, your head tucked under his chin and your pinkies together—the string resting between your chests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus scene:
> 
> "Brat!"  
> "Aha, but turnabout—"  
> "is fair play, I know dear. But when have you ever been about playing fair?"  
> Your face broke out into a mischievous grin, and you sunk back onto him slow.  
> He was captured.


End file.
